Out of Time Man
by TeamUnitedNerds
Summary: Hit pays a visit to his home planet for the first time in hundreds of years.


The buildings were winding spires that reached towards the purple sky like great twisted trees. The creatures had unfamiliar faces, and only glanced at him occasionally out of fascination. This was not a homecoming, he was a stranger here. He felt a strange bit of indignation; could these creatures have the decency to at least fear him?

The ground was paved with concrete, and the blue-skinned aliens with their big bulging eyes surrounded him on all side. He could barely move through the crowd. The air smelled strongly of smoke and garbage. It was day, but the sunlight was weak, blotted out by the great buildings and the lazily drifting clouds of thick grayish smog.

Frustrated, he employed his time-skip, using it to effortlessly push through the crowd. Soon, he was at the doorstep of the great library.

He walked up to the alien at the counter, his blue skinned darkened and his eyes shrunk with age. At least, he assumed that he was aged; the concept of decay was foreign to him.

"Do you have any books on the Labrax civilization?" he asked. The alien nodded, bringing him a thick tome. Its cover was faded, and the pages were barely attached to the spine.

"Thank you," he said. The library was quiet, and it smelled sweetly musty, so he found himself a place to sit.

The book described the Labrax with cold detachment. It was full of baseless speculation and inaccuracies. The description of the Labrax's appearance, and their anatomy, was not enough to make the picture in his mind of the people he once knew any clearer. The mirror was the closest thing to a memory he had.

There was nothing in there about his family. He was stupid for expecting otherwise. They were insignificant, indistinguishable from anyone else, not worth documenting in the slightest. The ones who were mentioned as being of historical import were meaningless to him, figures he only vaguely remembered. They were nothing more than names only mentioned in relation to meaningless conflicts.

His mother asked him why he was so quiet, why he never smiled, why he was so cold. She didn't sound angry, just worried. She thought it was her fault.

Next was a section on Labrax attire. He remembered that his mother was fond of long dresses. They were all the same color, only subtle changes from one another. Hit made a game out of spotting the differences between them each morning.

His father wore a long coat. Hit bought one of his own on his birthday. His mother said it made him look silly. His father assured her that he'd grow into it, that he'd become a tall, strong man, just like him.

Next was the section on anatomy. It was accurate, sure, but it failed to capture the beauty of Straiko, his only love. It mentioned nothing of her sweet lips, or those eyes, burning with a lust for life, and for him. She asked why he never smiled, she wondered if it was her fault.

Labrax housing was next. His home was small, and he had to share a room with several of his brothers. They all had their own nighttime habits, all equally disruptive to Hit's sleep. The walls always smelled of sweet, earthy wood, in all the years he lived there. He remembered when he paid three of his brothers to sleep on the bathroom floor, so he could sneak Straiko into his room in the dead of night. The purple sky hung darkly overhead. She didn't feel the need to ask if he was happy.

He turned back to the anatomy section. Lifespan: 100 years, average. There was a snag in his throat. He had seen more things than he should have, tenfold.

He should've returned in time.

The next section was religion. There was a sect of Labrax, who had mastered an ancient art, giving them power over time itself.

Master Jabo had ancient eyes, but a youthful face. He warned him that mastering time would leave him forever apart from it. Hit didn't care. Time had taken his father, he deserved dominion over it.

There was a section on him. It was all standard. Hit the Infallible, legendary assassin, able to dispatch any target in a single strike. Alive for 1000 years. Over 3,700 recorded kills. It was just a number, like 1000, like 100.

He shut the book, returned it, and thanked the librarian. He stayed in the back of the library. There was nowhere else he could be alone.

He should've come here sooner. He could've said goodbye. If not to them, then to their children. He could've explained himself. He could've told them why he left, why he'd outlive them by centuries.

It truly had been centuries. He'd seen civilizations rise and fall. This wasn't any different.

He left the library. He didn't thank him the second time.

He made his way back through the crowd. They were decaying infinitesimally before his eyes. He was apart from them. He didn't belong here, and he hadn't belonged here for centuries.

Master Jabo had lied to him. He had control over time. He could stop it, skip through it, shatter it, and make it his own. But he could not turn it back.

He had no home, and he was out of time.


End file.
